Christmas
by PotterGatsbyHolmes
Summary: John Watson hated Christmas...until it gave him the thing he wanted most in the world. Post-Reichenbach. WARNING: only read if you are equipped to deal with feels. But then again, is anyone? John certainly isn't.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson hated Christmas. He hated the crackling fireplace Mrs Hudson insisted upon lighting; he hated the mince pies she cooked and tried to feed him (by force if necessary); he hated all of it. But most of all, John Watson hated the silent violin that sat with reverence on the mantelpiece. There it quietly lay, day and night; mocking him with the ghost sounds of melodies he'd never hear again. It never gathered dust, because John would always dust it out of habit, but neither was it ever moved. He would not allow Mrs Hudson to even contemplate putting it away, in the cold, dark corner of a cupboard, the warm, worn wood never to be seen again, until he, John, died. Death. Brutal and cruel, snatching away the things…people…whom we love the most, not even giving us the chance to recuperate until it snatches itself. Mycroft died not long after Sherlock.

Normally, he'd be too smart for that kind of thing, but John's silence and the ever-growing guilt he felt towards his brother's death was too much. Near the end, he was haunted by hallucinations of a five year old Sherlock in a pirate hat, grasping an anatomically correct wooden sword wandering about his mansion. His caretakers said the sobbing was insufferable. Finally he left the same way as his brother, leaving with a sick twist. He used the handle of his umbrella. John was never really close to Mycroft; he almost hated him. But losing two Holmes' in one month was almost enough to drive _him _over the edge. And he would have, too, if Mrs Hudson hadn't kept him alive for those first two months. Finally, he grew to be stable, or at least was told he was. He'd stopped seeing his psychiatrist ages ago, refusing flat out for anyone but Sherlock to deduce what he was thinking. He'd dusted off his old cane and now slept in the living room on the sofa. He couldn't use the stairs and didn't want to disturb Sherlock's room, although he changed the sheets every month since then, to keep the damp at bay.

Now, it was three years after the fall and the window was open, carols streaming in faintly from the street and the warm glow of fireplaces and life just reached the sill. John sat stock still in his chair staring at the leather chair that used to be Sherlock's. A long time ago, he'd placed his Union Jack pillow on it in remembrance of their friendship; his loyalty to the one man he valued above Queen and Country. He could hear Mrs Hudson busying herself downstairs with the mince pies that he so despised nowadays. She hummed and danced when John wasn't in the room. She knew how much he hated it and refrained for his sake. Annoyed at the racket, he moved closer towards the window, leaning out so that he could see across the tops of the many roofs of Baker Street. Then, faintly, barely perceptively, just on the edge of his hearing, John heard a violin. And another. And another. A whole bunch of them. And…they were playing a melody composed by… no. No no no no no… Yes? Looking around wildly for the source of the sweet music, John Watson almost fell out of the window. Just catching himself on the ledge, he gasped and looked down onto the street to Speedy's Sandwich shop. Underneath the red canvas that obscured his view of the footpath, John thought he saw the sweep of a dark black coat. Not willing to lean out of the window again, he turned and ran down the stairs, cane forgotten, to the door and wrenched it open, adrenaline rushing fifty thousand miles an hour through his system. Nothing. No one on the other side of the door. Nothing. The emotions John Watson experienced next cannot be described in words and I'm sorry if anyone was very much looking forward to a description of his unimaginable pain and suffering. He fell to his knees and huddled into the smallest ball he could make with his now thin, underfed body. And he cried. The man who had made it through wars and his best friend's death, at the hope of false-retribution, cried his whole, broken heart out. For approximately sixty seconds he lay on the floor like that; sobbing and shattered. Then his phone made a noise normally reserved for whenever he gets a text. John lifted his head weakly, only to be met with shiny, black shoes and the hem of a large black coat.

Hello, John

-SH


	2. Chapter 2: Boxing Day

Sherlock's deep voice only just reached John's ears before he blacked out. "John?" The sadness, then hope, then loss, then sudden appearance of his supposedly dead best friend was just a little too much for what Sherlock would've referred to as his 'inferior brain'. No, not would've. Would. Would refer to… He's alive, is the last thing John remembered thinking before the darkness came. When he awoke, he was in his bed, which struck him as strange. He hadn't slept in his bed since his limp returned. John gazed around the room groggily, wondering how he'd gotten there. A hazy glance to the corner of the bedroom told him his cane was propped up against the wall, and a similar look to the bed notified him that blankets from his makeshift bed on the sofa had been brought up to him. A familiar blue scarf sat on his bedside table with his phone on top of it. John rolled over and turned on the screen; two new messages. One was a hello from Sherlock. The other said:

Come to the living room when convenient.

If inconvenient, wake up already.

-SH

He chuckled, lay back and relished in the fact his friend was alive. So alive. Breathing, walking, texting, deducing. Then an awful thought popped into his head. What if it wasn't him, after all? What if this was some sick joke? Someone had dressed like Sherlock, gotten John's number, etc… He was suddenly gripped with an over-whelming fear. A fear that was only dramatically increased when he heard Mrs Hudson scream and drop what sounded like a tray (most likely of mince pies). He flew out of bed, dressed only in his pyjamas (when had he gotten changed into pyjamas?) and ran full tilt down the stairs. He burst into the kitchen only to see Mrs Hudson standing there frozen, her hands still in a tray-holding position even though it was now on the floor (she had been making more mince pies) and a tall, dark haired man not two feet away from her speaking in deep, calming tones. John barely stopped to see who it was before lashing out, hitting wherever he could get, hell bent on protecting Mrs Hudson. He punched and hit and kicked and the man hardly fought back. He hardly needed to. A few quick movements with his pale, slender hands around John's wrists and the army doctor was on the floor in a heartbeat. The man bent over him, fingers still against the pressure points, and leaned in close. "John," he said, in a voice almost forgotten, but so familiar. Reluctantly, scared of being deceived, John Watson looked upwards to see the face he had so longed to see for three entire, lonely years. That annoyingly perfect hair, the lips that could tell lies so convincing people would take them for gospel (including John) and the eyes that were an impossible blend of colours that only held warmth for him and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was so close now John could count the stiches in his red button-hole and smell the sugared tea on his breath. The man lightly shook him, frustrated, and relaxed his grip on John's wrists.

"John? Speak." Slowly the utter intoxicating joy of seeing Sherlock alive faded from John's head, and the happiness was replaced by pure anger. Anger at his pointless mourning, anger at Sherlock's nerve, anger at just damn well everything. Anger that Sherlock did not deduce until John had head-butted him so hard he fell back into his own chair, falling hard on the Union Jack. John heard Mrs Hudson gasp and call out something akin to "boys stop", but he pretended not to hear. Instead he walked over to the world's only consulting detective and punched him right in the mouth, remembering what that damned Alder woman said about avoiding his nose and teeth. Look where caring got him; here, in this mess of emotions and blood. He stood over Sherlock who looked up at him with a startled expression. "Whad bid you do vat for?" he said, his teeth tinged red. "Not done yet." said John, and raised his arm up for another blow. However Mrs Hudson ran and threw herself in front of his target, her eyes closed tight, bracing herself for the full force of his fist.


	3. Chapter 3: The Morning After

Chapter 3:

John's arm subconsciously diverted away from the landlady and he ended up punching the arm of Sherlock's grey chair, swearing both at her impulsiveness and the pain that shot up his arm. She didn't miss a beat. "John Watson, you stop this right now!" she yelled, quite louder than seemed humanly possible for her slight frame. Instantly the doctor stood up straight and stopped swearing. Ashamed, he apologised to Mrs Hudson, head lowered. He did not apologize to Sherlock. "Promise you behave in a civilised manner?" she asked John. He nodded and she moved slowly out of the way, not looking away from his eyes, gauging whether he would lunge again or not. When she seemed satisfied John wouldn't tear Sherlock's head off, Mrs Hudson walked behind him and began to clean up the miniature, deliciously fruity pies he hated so much. The army doctor faced the consulting detective and frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What the hell?"

Sherlock grinned at John's lack of elegance, but this just made him angrier for some reason. Sherlock could see this and reverted back to a neutral expression.

"Moriarty told me I had to jump-"

"Oh, so naturally you did?"

"-if I didn't want you to die." he said, speaking over his companion, who now looked in shock.

"What?" he breathed. Sherlock seemed to almost roll his eyes, but stopped himself.

"It's obvious, John, it was blackmail. Moriarty said that if his men didn't see me jump they were going to kill Lestrade…" He looked behind John to see if the land lady was still there. She wasn't. "…Mrs Hudson and…you." John sat down in his chair, breathless from the shock and tired from the fight. "But, how did you do it? How did you fake your death? I-I saw you, l-lying on the pavement. You were covered in bl-blood. How?!" The last word came not as a question, but a desperate demand for an answer. Sherlock stared at him with what seemed like pity for a while and then merely said, "Elementary." and with that the subject was dropped. All the previous tension fell away and suddenly it was like it was before, but happier and with a bit more blood. Finally John looked over at Sherlock and asked, "How did I get upstairs?"

"I carried you."

"You carried me?" Sherlock was unfazed.

"You're very thin these days, it wasn't very hard." John thought he could see worry in his friend's eyes, but dismissed it. He knew he was thin; could he help it if he didn't have an appetite? He cleared his throat. "And, um, how is it that I am in my pyjamas?" Again, a look of passivity dominated Sherlock's face.

"I put them on you. You were wearing that awful, itchy sweater Harriet got you last Christmas and I knew you'd be uncomfortable." Heat rushed up John's neck.

"Right. Why didn't you just take the sweater off?" John thought he could see the slightest flash of colour rise in his flatmate's face for a moment, and then recede. The detective didn't answer, but got up and placed a pale hand on the violin whose silence John hated so much. Pulling the bow off the bookcase, Sherlock Holmes wandered over to the window, basked in the morning sunshine. Then he began a cheerful rendition of 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas', as Mrs Hudson entered the room quietly behind the both of them. A part of John told him that it was Boxing Day, and that Christmas was over, but he had a feeling that none of them cared what day it was; just that Sherlock was back, and that was the best Christmas gift they could ever wish for.


End file.
